


The Decisions We Make, The Oaths We Keep

by Caepio



Category: Classical Greece and Rome History & Literature RPF, Historical RPF, Julius Caesar - Shakespeare
Genre: Angst, Arguing, Historical References, Honor, Idealism, Love/Hate, M/M, Past Relationship(s), Rewrite, Suicide, War, sort of historically accurate
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-23
Updated: 2016-11-23
Packaged: 2018-09-01 11:38:45
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,742
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8623141
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Caepio/pseuds/Caepio
Summary: The night before the 2nd battle of Philippi.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is part of a 40,000 word fanfic I wrote 4 years ago and never posted due to the dubious nature of its quality. I recently revisited it and did some heavy editing, I may or may not post more from it. Extra points if you catch the Richard II reference.

The plain of Philippi was far from still, though the sounds and movements seemed to beg the vengeance of the storm that hung just over the horizon. Soldiers, unnerved by the shrieking wind, went about the business of the camps, horses’ bridles dully sounding iron and steel.  


Brutus was lying on the floor of the command tent, staring up at at the lamp above him. It was the early hours of the morning, a book lay, discarded, next to him; the Iliad. He was simply lying there, watching the light flicker on the ceiling of the tent, his arms crossed behind his head, thinking.  


He was going to die. He knew it. And he thought about what that might mean, and watched the flickering of the light in the glass panes of the lamp above him cast patterns and shapes against the cloth of the tent. Was this how death was supposed to be? Were you supposed to see it coming, know it in advance, and know that you will not stop it?  


Brutus heard the sound of footsteps outside the tent, the low pitched murmur of voices, and he pulled himself to his feet, setting the book down on his desk just as the tent flap was pushed aside, sending the flame of the lamp flickering against the glass, the shadows wavering, 

“Sir?” His lieutenant, Lucilius, stepped inside, his cloak still wrapped around him against the cold. He hesitated slightly before speaking and Brutus raised an eyebrow but before Lucilius could speak, the tent flap was pushed aside again, and Antony slipped through, pulling the hood of his cloak back, his gaze fixed on Brutus, ignoring the other soldier. Brutus glanced quickly at Lucilius, his gaze flicking towards the door of the tent in dismissal, and Lucilius quietly slipped outside, leaving them alone.  


When Brutus finally looked back at Antony there was a tension in his body, his hands clenched around the edge of the desk. He was trying - desperately trying - as he so often had in the past, to act as if he didn’t care.  


“You don’t have to let this happen.” Antony said quietly, “Don’t make this your only option.”  


“I’m not the one who makes that decision. We both swore oaths. I promised my life to the Republic. You swore to revenge a friend. This is the follow through. I can’t stop a war just because you changed how you feel about the outcome.”  


“You don’t have to die. Your death won’t matter. Disappear, get out of here. ”  


“It’s a little late for you to decide you care.”  


“It doesn’t have to be.”  


“I say it is. The way someone dies, and the reasons for their death, can sometimes be more eloquent than their life. You’ve worked so hard to muddy my life, let me do this in my own way. Let my death have the effect I desire.”  


“That’s not up to me. Don’t trust anyone to keep your legacy alive without you. The people will see what others tell them to.”  


“It’s not about how people see me.” Brutus murmured, and Antony laughed, low and involuntary, turning away from him as Brutus flushed, in anger, or maybe in shame. “And even if it was, what does it matter? This is the point I’ve reached, there are a limited number of options left, and even fewer that are not dishonorable.” He straightened slightly, trying to match Antony in height, “Perhaps I’m not as weak as you think. Perhaps I’ll win tomorrow. But even if I don’t, I’ll play this out. Like the Spartans at Thermopylae. I want-” As if he’d run out of breath, his voice stopped, “I want to be like that. I have to be seen to be brave. I have to be brave. If I’m not now, no one will ever remember that I once was. The example I set won’t matter.”  


“It already doesn’t. No one else cares. You only think they do.”  


“We’ve never agreed about what people think.”  


“But I’ve always been right.”  


And that was inarguable.  


“Why are you here? Is this a last minute regret? Is all this so you won’t feel guilty tomorrow if you win and you find me dead?”  


Antony didn’t answer. He was looking at Brutus’ armor behind his desk. “You’re a good man. I’ve always believed that. Cassius- He never…” He hesitated, looking down, “You don’t deserve an end like his.”  


“But we’re both guilty of the same crime, regardless of what you think of me and my nature. You proclaimed us both equally guilty.”  


“So you look for the same punishment? ‘Here lie two kinsmen who dug their graves with the same action.’ Never mind that one was honorable, and good, and helplessly blind, and the other was a murderous, vengeful, cunt. No, let’s forget that because one of them is also a guilt ridden idealist.” There was the sound of movement outside the tent, one of the guards shifting, Antony had spoken too loud. Brutus brushed past him, a sheaf of papers in his hand, dropping them into the burning brazier on the other side of the tent. Antony leant against the desk, watching him. "If the differences between you don’t matter now why should they ever matter in the future? Tyrannicide, traitor, outcast of Rome. I’ll have it engraved on your tombstone, ready for you whenever you drop dead.”  


“Rome has never been just a city." Brutus said quietly, hesitating before dropping the final letter on the fire, "And the rest is just opinion.”  


“Most people don’t see it that way.”  


“No one has ever happily survived the killing of a king. I knew it came with a price.”  


“Caesar wasn’t a king.”  


“But you wage this war as if he was.”  


“If you die, the Republic will die too.”  


“I think, perhaps, it already has. I’m just the grave sacrifice.” Brutus looked at the thin crack of light glowing at the tent door. “It’s almost dawn. If you’re to be my executioner you should leave.”  


“This isn’t what I wanted.”  


“But this is what you caused. Don’t bother regretting it this late. The moment to change any of this is long gone.”  


“I loved you.”  


There was silence. Brutus did not raise his head. The light flickered in the lamps. And then Brutus looked up, and met Antony’s eyes, with all same coldness he might have shown the floor a moment before, “Yes. And once I said the same. If you’d have me remember our words in the past, it would be better if they had not later drawn blood. I can’t forget the one and remember another. What I said then - It doesn’t matter now. It hasn’t mattered in a very long time.”  


“Then what is this?”  


“A remnant.”  


As the lamp faded and the daylight grew the exhaustion in Brutus’ face deepened, he crossed around the desk and reached for his bracers, dropped his cuirass over his head and started to do up the straps, “If you thought this was anything more, you should reexamine your delusions. If you were looking for me to forgive you, or tell you not to blame yourself, that it’s not your fault, I won’t. I’ve lived with my guilt. You can live with yours.” He hesitated, his palms pressed against his desk, and then in a voice Antony was sure was not intended to have a note of weakness in it, “All the same. Whatever your feelings - I want my body burned on the field. The ashes sent to my mother. There is a copy of my will in that desk, and one in Rome. Perhaps you will be kind enough to see it fulfilled.”  


“Why should I?”  


Brutus didn’t respond, his eyes scanned the table between them as if looking for words, until eventually he asked, “Why did you come here?”  


Antony hesitated, and then, with what seemed like a great effort, “To see if you were still the same, when no one else is around to see. If I have no reason left to care, then I won’t have to regret what happens today.”  


“And?”  


Antony leant forward slightly, placing his hands on the opposite edge of the table, mirroring Brutus, staring at the grain of the wood, “Call your army to the field. I’ll see what might be done about your will. Just don't-” His head fell forward slightly, he didn’t breathe for a long moment, and when he straightened he didn't look at Brutus, “A strap of your cuirass is loose. You should have someone fix that.” He tugged up the hood of his cloak and left the tent. Brutus watched him go. He listened to the sound of horse’s hooves as Antony rode out of the camp. He fixed the clasp on his armor. And he took the dagger Antony had left on the table and strapped it to his side.


	2. Men in the Arena

When Quintus Servilius Caepio was 26, he lived in Athens for a summer. He met a man named Marcus Antonius, in the gardens above the theater of Dionysos. Side by side they drank wine in the portico of Quintus’ house until dawn and laughed in Greek and in that different language, Quintus said he loved. And when the summer ended and Rome was home again, the Latin tongue broke his Attic promises and restructured his heart.  


When Marcus Antonius was grown, he learned of lies and public faces, and a world where who you cared for was a detail, and not the real story. Where names meant more than a label. And a person could change in syllables.  


When Marcus Junius Brutus was 43, he made the educated, precise decision of his ancestors. He made that decision with laconic stoicism and the eloquence of a sword. And sometimes, in the after-years, men remembered who he was and what he did. And sometimes it inspired them. Sometimes they believed it right. And some days he would languish in fire at hell mouth and be branded traitor.  


Somedays Antony mourned. And somedays he forgot. Somedays he felt guilt. And somedays he would look at Brutus’ will in the bottom drawer of his desk and slam it back shut. But when his end came, he decided it. With asiatic passion and the eloquence of a sword. And their decisions, in the end, were no better and no worse than the other. And no less correct. 

And no less mistaken.


End file.
